


Edge of the Flame

by amyfortuna



Series: Elements of Maedhros [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, Despair, Heavy Angst, M/M, Noldolante, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros, broken by the results of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, makes his way along with Maglor through the years after, fighting the pull of the Oath and the pain inside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of the Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mitsuhachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitsuhachi/gifts).



Maedhros was burning. Far away beyond sight, but not beyond the reach of his senses, Fingon was fighting, was dying, was burning himself, and there was no way to save him. 

The battle was lost, hopelessly lost, and it was all his own fault. He was too late. All his life he had been too late to save the ones he loved, and now his most dear, his Fingon, was caught in the flame, was going. 

Was gone. White lightning ripped the black sky open and the roar of his passing was seen and felt from black gate to ruined plain, from Himring to Barad Eithel. 

He was fighting now mechanically, sword and dagger stabbing, shield blocking, dodging weaponry and arrows, saving people, saving himself. Even in the midst of the death of his most beloved he fought to survive. But everything was numb and far away. He took injuries without noticing, killed without noticing who met the point of his sword, found at last that he was retreating, tugged by Maglor, pursued by Orcs. 

And then at last they were able to stop running. He sank down there, underneath a tree, in the pouring rain, and sat still numb, mind frozen and burning at the same time, a maelstrom of unfocused fury whipping through his head while at the same time he lived the moment of Fingon’s death a hundred times again. 

Maglor looked at him sympathetically, there under the tree, and himself took responsibility for ordering people around, tending wounded, burying those with them who died. There were thousands left on the battlefield, a disorganised, chaotic retreat, and people, Elves and Men alike, were still dying all around them. 

When Maglor lost the Gap, his wife had been killed in the battle, a warrior herself. He had felt the moment she passed, and in that moment it was Maedhros who saved him, pulled him out of harm’s way. It was no different with Maedhros, for all he and Fingon had never made formal vows. They had been together since before their families were estranged, though often separated by distance. Maglor knew their hearts always yearned toward each other, and now in his grief Maedhros was even more lost than he himself had been. 

Some part of Maedhros that had always lived in Fingon was gone with him. 

Days passed. Their retreat went on. The loss on the battlefield was devastating but even worse was the overrunning of all the land Fingon had held and loved. Hithlum, lost. Dor-lomin, overrun. Barad Eithel, where Maedhros and Fingon last had met, just a few months ago, sacked and destroyed. 

With a much reduced force, they made it back to Himring, only to find that in their absence, Orcs had taken the garrison, killing all those left behind. Faced with this further defeat, Maedhros led the few that remained of his people into the wilds of Ossiriand. The following years went by in a painful blur. Days passed when Maedhros could do little save dwell on all the horrors he had seen, from the Kinslaying at Alqualonde to his long torture on the walls of Thangorodrim, and every moment spent apart from Fingon he counted as moments lost out of a life too short. 

When at last Celegorm came to him, challenging him on the Oath they had taken to demand the Silmaril of Dior, or be denounced Oathbreaker as well as Kinslayer and all the rest, Maedhros said no word to prevent him. A great numbness and weariness lay on him and he cared not whether he lived or died. 

At the news that Dior’s twin sons had been taken into the forest and there lost, he felt as though he had been thrown into cold water, the shock of it briefly waking him from numb grief. He moved with a speed not seen in years, spent days combing the forest along with his own people, emerged ragged and hopeless, fading back into grief again. Yet another failure, yet another ill deed to set to his account. 

And yet more of those he loved gone. With the deaths of Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin, now only Maglor and Amrod remained to him, along with an ever-dwindling remnant of his people. Every month, more left, travelling over Ered Luin, or to Sirion, until all that remained with them were fifty warriors, without family, friends, or kin. 

At the Havens of Sirion the Silmaril stayed, and for long years Maedhros let it be, yet knowing that a time would come when the Oath could no longer be denied. He was weary of all, sick of life, and wished only for death. 

It was at the Havens of Sirion that the first moment of crisis came. With Amrod’s death, and the loss of nearly all his folk in the destruction of the city, and indeed, the loss of all their hopes with the flight of Elwing and the Silmaril, Maedhros found himself alone in a room full of the dead he had with his own hand killed, his bloody dagger in his hand, and a swan rising, white with radiance, from the Sea. 

He fell to his knees in grief and loss, and his hand turned the dagger to point it at his chest. A soft noise came from behind him, and a small child stood there as he turned, dagger frozen just before the point of entering his breast. For long moments they only looked at each other, then the child reached out, and calmly took the dagger from his hand, laying it aside. He could not move or breathe then.

Running steps came from outside the room, and Maglor entered. Behind him followed another child, exactly like the first. 

So it was that Maedhros first met Elrond and Elros. Maglor was the first to suggest, in that abandoned city, that they should keep the children themselves. Mind flashing back on lost twins from years before, and even further back, to younger brothers now gone, Maedhros could only agree, hoping beyond hope to bring one small good deed from all that had gone ill. But with the light in Elrond’s eyes as he stopped him from taking his own life, a small measure of hope had been given back to Maedhros, for a time. The Silmaril was gone beyond their reach, and the Oath was once more in abeyance. 

Hard years followed. In Lindon they built a house with the few of their household that remained faithful, and there they stayed, avoiding all company, taking no part in any of the deeds of the world. 

Awakened from grief now at times, Maedhros pushed aside his overwhelming loss in the face of greater need, and found some small measure of comfort in providing for and teaching the small ones in his care. Ever now when he sank back into despair, Elrond would seek him out, curling up in his lap and sitting uncharacteristically silently for a child, for hours on end. 

“Why do you come to find me?” he asked at last one day, as they sat together in a large chair before the hearthfire, in the flames of which Maedhros could only see the faces of his loved ones, from Amras to Fingon to Amrod, flickering as they died because he could not save them. 

Elrond put his small arms around Maedhros’ neck. “Because you need healing. I’m going to be a healer, one day,” he said. 

“I am hale, if not whole,” Maedhros protested, not wishing for sympathy from a child. 

“The _hroa_ is only half of what must be healed,” Elrond said. “It is your _fea_ that is wounded.” He bit his lip, looking carefully at Maedhros, and a look was on his face of one much older. “I do not understand much of what I see inside you, but I must help, in any small way that I can.” 

Maedhros put his arms around the boy. “You do help, Elrond. There is a great wealth of kindness in you, and that will serve you better than all the gems ever made or cut.” For a long time they sat before the fire, Maedhros seeing again the face of Fingon, eyes alight this time with love and welcome. A faint smile passed across his face. 

“The face you look upon in your memory, who was he?” Elrond asked at last. Maedhros stirred, eyes opening. 

“Everything,” he said, with a sigh. “Without him there are no stars, no Moon or Sun.* Only Flame waits for me, and it will take me as surely as it took him.” He took a deep breath and shook his head as if to clear it. “But no, little one, you are too young to see so much. I would protect you from what you cannot understand.”

But Elrond looked back with a steady gaze. “I understand well enough. You would protect all, except yourself only. You fought a war as if you were the only one fighting, but you were not, and you cannot be responsible for the fate of those you loved. He met his fate by choice I know, for else you would not have loved him.”

Maedhros breathed in. “Fingon. Findekano the Valiant, I called him. He won renown justly, for he was wise and skilled in all the arts of voice and hand. Truth and justice he loved, and bore goodwill to all, hating Morgoth only. He sought not power nor glory…” Maedhros’ voice trailed off, turning bitter again. “And his reward was death most horrible.** I would have wept over his body, had there been anything left of him on the blood-sodden fields.” Elrond’s gasp of horror did not go unnoticed, and Maedhros stilled instantly. 

“Forgive me, child, this is too much to speak of to one in their twelfth year, even one so wise as you.” 

Elrond was trembling but brave. “I have seen death before,” he said, trying to remain calm. 

“I know,” Maedhros said. “And that is my fault as well.” 

There was nothing Elrond could say in response, so he said nothing, but clung the tighter to Maedhros, watching him. And it was so that Maedhros began to cry, tears sliding down his face. He did not sob or moan, only wept as though he would never stop. Elrond stayed silent, wiping away the tears with the sleeves of his tunic. 

Some time later, as the night drew in, Maglor came into the room to find Elrond still wiping away tears with sleeves that were now soaked through. Elrond looked at Maglor, and said only, “Fingon.” Maglor nodded, drawing close and laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Maedhros looked up at the touch and Maglor could see that there was less desolation in his eyes. 

From that day on, Maedhros sat no longer by the fire in despair, but strove to conquer the black moods that overtook him. He trained both boys in all manner of weapons, taught them the forgework that all the sons of Feanor had learned from their earliest days, and how to lead a people and manage a household. Maglor, as suited him far better, taught them all the history of the peoples of Beleriand, from the Grinding Ice to the Ered Luin, and of all the flora and fauna that dwelt therein, mostly via the medium of verse. He also taught them music of lyre, harp, and flute, how to sing, and how to dance. And in their household was one well-trained in the arts of healing, Carisse who long ago had tended Maedhros when he was brought back from Thangorodrim, and it was she who taught Elrond all her knowledge and skill. 

For in those days the world was changing, and ever Elrond and Elros could hear the sounds of great battle far away. Earth cracked and changed from day to day, and the Silmaril shone overhead. Often would Elros finding Maglor looking up at it, glad that it was gone beyond his reach, but Maedhros never dared to gaze upon it. 

When the news of the end of the War of Wrath came, Maedhros and Maglor held a long conversation between them, which Elrond and Elros did not hear, and which Elrond was only told of long afterward. But there was bitter, black, despair in Maedhros’ eyes, and utter defeat in Maglor’s.

“Our faithful followers to the end, and our beloved Elrond and Elros,” Maedhros said formally to the gathered household, “we now bid you make your way to Gil-galad, if you will. What we purpose to do we will do alone, for all our deeds have gone amiss and we do not look to return. No thanks would suffice for the service you have given us who least deserved it, and we hope only that the ill fate which awaits us you may avoid. We are driven by obligation which you do not share, and may no part of it ever touch you.” 

Without more words Maglor lifted his harp and sang the Noldolante, his great song of the Fall of the Noldor, the only time he ever performed it in its final form. And the assembled household wept to hear it, for in that song was the full knowledge of all the ill deeds of the Sons of Feanor but at the same time the traps and claws of fate that could not be turned aside and oaths that could not be discarded or broken. 

_“…By Eru we swore in our madness_  
 _an Oath that can never be fulfilled_  
 _And so the Ever-dark awaits us,_  
 _We go forth only to be killed._

_Of mercy we dare not seek or ask,_  
 _We fear it will only be denied us_  
 _And now as we set forth on this task_  
 _We say leave now and do not find us!”_

The song ended abruptly as uncharacteristically Maglor’s harp struck a wrong, harsh note and went silent. He set it down on the ground, turned, and walked away, Maedhros following him, and none dared stop or stay them. Elrond’s eyes followed them into the distance, until they could no longer be seen. 

In the camp of the Valar Maedhros and Maglor were quick and quiet, endeavouring to slay as few as possible, at last overcoming those who guarded the Silmarils, and stealing away with them into the night. Far from the camp, Maedhros slashed through the lock of the strongbox wherein they had been placed, and the shining gems were revealed once more to their eyes. 

Even the light from them burned. All around them fires and fissures wracked the dark earth. The time of the end of Beleriand was nigh, and underneath the stars Maedhros’ mind flamed with pain. And yet he took one of them into his hand, almost welcoming the pain at first, far worse than the years he’d spent on Thangorodrim chained, far worse than any wound. For at first it was not worse than the death of Fingon, and the pain brought a seeming clarity to his thoughts. 

Maglor took his own jewel into his hands, and fought the pain as it burned him too. 

“Now we know that we are indeed for the Dark,” he said. “This is why they let us go. Never, never can we be pardoned!” 

And at his words the last hope faded from Maedhros’ heart, a hope he had not known that he had: that after death he would wake to Fingon’s face above him and all their nightmares ended. Then the Jewel did indeed burn him, incandescent white in his hand. With a cry of inarticulate despair, he made his way to a nearby fissure, endeavouring to let the Silmaril go, let it fall into the flames, but found that he could not. And as Maglor watched in silence, Maedhros beheld the flames at the heart of the earth, and cooler they looked to him than the flame of his _fea_ then. 

Clutching the Silmaril to his breast, he leaped. And the flames took him, burning with a fire that seemed to purify him. His last thought was of eyes deep blue and long ago, eyes that welcomed and laughed. 

And all the fire was quenched.

**Author's Note:**

> * An allusion to WH Auden's [Stop All The Clocks](http://www.npr.org/programs/death/readings/poetry/aude.html).  
> ** An adaptation of a quote from HoME 5: The Lost Road & Other Writings - basically my headcanon is that Elrond remembers what Maedhros said about Fingon pretty much word for word.


End file.
